


The Bite of Steel

by October_rust



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Enemy Mine - Freeform, Humiliation, M/M, Swordfighting, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22440946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: Iorveth catches Roche bathing in the forest. A sword fight ensues.
Relationships: Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Comments: 13
Kudos: 125





	The Bite of Steel

“This is a sacred place, dh'oine.”

Iorveth doesn't have to wait for the reaction: Roche freezes, his back still turned to Iorveth, his hands pausing in the middle of rinsing soap from his chest. He's submerged almost to his waist; the water laps gently at his hips, its surface dotted with fallen leaves. The crumbling columns and statues lining the banks of the small pond are shimmering in the summer heat. 

“Though I have to admit I find it surprising,” Iorveth says in a calm, almost conversational tone. “To actually see you washing yourself. I always thought you dh'oine loved rolling around in your own – “

The water erupts in a glistening cascade, as Roche lunges for his clothes and weapons left strewn on the moss-covered marble slab. Muscles bunching, heedless of his feet slipping on the wet pebbles and grass, he snatches at the hilt, unsheathes the blade and then whirls at Iorveth in one fluid motion. 

Iorveth raises his eyebrows and laughs. “This is how you mean to die, Roche?”

But he draws one of his own swords, twirls it lazily to loosen up his wrist. Amusement is warring with seething wrath, and Iorveth knows well that he should have stuck Roche full of arrows the moment he spotted him bathing here, amid these ruins full of sorrow and memory, and yet … 

And yet.

He meets Roche's opening blow, pushes forward to drive his enemy back. Low, simmering fury is coursing in his veins, and he welcomes it, allows it to sharpen his reflexes, guide him through the steps of his and Roche's lethal dance. 

Roche, however, holds his ground. His long sword meets Iorveth's blade, parrying, thrusting, arcing in wide, sweeping strokes. The force of it is straining Roche's arms; the echo of the strain reverberates through Iorveth himself whenever steel clangs against steel.

He pays Roche in kind, of course. Matches him one ferocious strike after another, so that Roche has no choice but to spend every last ounce of his considerable strength on fending off Iorveth's attacks. And when it comes to endurance and determination, Iorveth has more than enough of both at his disposal. After all, he'd started killing humans long before Roche was even born.

One well-aimed counter-cut – that's all it takes to knock the sword from Roche's hand. 

Roche, his back braced against one of the half-collapsed columns, stares at Iorveth with wide eyes. The apple of his throat moves beneath Iorveth's blade as he swallows.

“You have me, you pointy-eared bastard,” he says at last, voice ragged. His chest heaves with rapid breaths, and Iorveth sweeps his gaze over it. The skin is scarred, criss-crossed with thin, white lines, marking Roche's encounters with Iorveth and Scoia'tael. The sight makes Iorveth smile. 

“So quick to yield, commander?” He glances pointedly at the Temerian crest, inked close to Roche's heart.

Anger sparks in Roche's eyes. He's about to snarl back something, but Iorveth simply digs the sword into Roche's neck in silent warning. A bead of blood wells up above the sharp edge of steel and starts seeping from a small, barely visible scratch.

“That's better,” Iorveth comments. Roche is bulkier than he is, his shoulders broader, his thighs sturdier. Primitive animal, Iorveth thinks, as he looks at the trail of dark hair arrowing down past Roche's navel.

Dirty, primitive dh'oine.

“I wonder what your men would say if they could see you right now.”

With that, he reaches out and grazes his fingertips over Roche's hard abdomen. The muscles jump under the deceptively light touch, an involuntary reaction that Roche is helpless to hide from Iorveth. There's dampness too, some of it water, some sweat, but Iorveth is still surprised at the heat. Compared to Aen Seidhe, humans seem to burn with fever.

“Pathetic,” Iorveth says, holding Roche's gaze, even as his palm slides lower and lower. Roche doesn't disappoint him – the fiery glare promising all kinds of retribution that he levels at Iorveth is a sweet reward in itself. 

“Weak,” Iorveth continues and doesn't cease tracing absent-minded patterns over Roche's belly and flanks, exploring the solidity of flesh and bone. For all his glowering, Roche is standing stock-still, rigid as one of the fallen marble statues. 

“Disgusting,” Iorveth whispers. His thumb caresses the soft, unblemished skin in the crease of Roche's hip, teasing, enticing, on the brink of crossing that final boundary. One more and – 

All at once, Roche rears back, as far away as possible from Iorveth's touch and sword.

“Get on with it,” he grits out. “Gut me, slit my throat. Just stop talking.”

His cheeks, however, are stained with a faint blush. Iorveth takes it greedily anyway, drinks in the whole picture – the way Roche seeks even more distance, the nervous tension straightening his spine, coiling in his shoulders, clenching his jaw. And his eyes – dark and shocked, despite all the bold words.

Delightful.

For a moment Iorveth is tempted. The rage inside him howls at him to tear at Roche, to see that spark of confused want and fear blaze into a flame, to sink his teeth into the long column of Roche's throat, bruise Roche's wrists, wring hoarse gasps and screams from the dh'oine's lips, to …

Iorveth promptly stifles the impulse. 

Even so, he takes a step back, bends down to pick up Roche's sword and the bundle of clothes. The clothes he tosses at Roche's feet.

“I'm not going to kill you today,” he drawls. “No challenge in that, when you surrender so easily.”

He turns away, starts walking towards the line of old, gnarled trees.

“Come find me if you want a round two,” he adds over his shoulder. “And if you want your sword back.”

“Oh, I will come for you, elf.”

Iorveth smiles to himself.


End file.
